Free The Peculiar Miracles of Antoinette Martin: A Novel by Stephanie Knipper Page A

wet. The road was narrower than Lily remembered, and as she rounded a bend her tires slipped onto the gravel shoulder. An unwanted thought pushed through her mind: traffic fatalities were the leading cause of death for people ages eight to thirty-four.
    She eased off of the gas pedal and positioned her hands at nine and three o’clock on the steering wheel. Her knuckles were white, but she didn’t loosen her grip. She hunched her shoulders to loosen the knots between them.
    Around her, white-plank fences stood in front of houses tucked into the hills. Puffy white-flowered Bradford pear trees dotted the landscape. The trees were invasive, able to grow anywhere, including the thick Kentucky soil. They spread like the honeysuckle in the woods behind Eden Farms, but Lily liked them. There was something to admire about a species that planted itself anywhere, even if it wasn’t wanted.
    The road widened slightly as it turned into Main Street and ran past Cora’s Italian Restaurant, past the Bakery Barn, and Teelia Todd’s shop, Knitwits. Lily passed the library with its Georgian columns making it look as if it belonged in a grander town. The farmers’ market sat across from the library, taking up an entire block.
    Redbud was known for Eden Farms’ flowers, and in two hours the market would be full of daffodils and hyacinths, the air thick with their scent. Moms in baseball caps would meander through the aisles, towing toddlers behind them.
    On impulse, Lily turned into the lot and parked in front of the Eden Farms’ booth. It still anchored the market the way it had when she was young.
    Teelia Todd’s booth stood across from theirs. She sold hand-spun alpaca yarn. Her husband had died when Lily was in kindergarten, leaving Teelia to raise their son, Deacon, alone. On cool days, Teelia would bring one of her alpacas, Frank, to the market with her. She’d loop his lead line around a beam where he’d nuzzle everyone who passed.
    Lily smiled at the memory as she walked to the Eden Farms’ booth. She ran her fingers over the rough wood planks. The years fell away, and she was sixteen again, sitting on a metal stool, surrounded by cut sunflowers and hydrangeas, fanning herself with a folded price list.
    Rose was supposed to help, but she usually snuck off before the day got too hot. “I’m out of here as soon as I finish school,” she’d say. “Who wants to spend their life pulling weeds and spreading manure?”
    Lily tried to explain the peace she felt sitting in the booth, answering questions about which flowers tolerated the heavy Kentucky soil, or why a blast with the garden hose was the safest way to get rid of Japanese beetles, but Rose never understood.
    Flowers were predictable, like numbers. Black spots on rose leaves indicated a fungus. Prune the damaged leaves, apply a fungicide, and the plant should survive. Brown hosta leaves meant the plant needed more shade or water. Move it to a shady spot or increase the waterings and it would be fine. Plants spoke a language she understood. To those who paid attention, they revealed whether they needed more phosphorous or nitrogen, less water, or a good soaking with the hose.
    A large pickup truck rumbled past. In only minutes, the lot had started to fill with the farmers and artists who had booths at the market. Looking out across the market, she pictured it full. Handmade soaps. Chocolate-dipped strawberries. Hand-harvested honeycomb. Teelia’s booth stuffed with yarn.
    Lily wanted to settle onto the metal stool behind the Eden Farms cash register, but Rose was waiting at home, and although Lily’s heart hammered nervously against her ribs she longed to see her sister.
    A white truck, its bed filled with yellow snapdragons and pansies in rainbow colors, slid into the parking space next to hers. Lily dipped her head, letting her dark hair fall like a screen across her face.
    “You’re early. The market doesn’t open for another two hours,” a man said.
    Even with